


Salt the Earth Behind You

by sorchaas



Category: Final Fantasy XV
Genre: Alternate Universe - No Prophecy (Final Fantasy XV), Angst, Arranged Marriage, Blood, Character Deaths, Eventual Happy Ending, Implied abuse, Just Regular Crystal Bullshit, M/M, No tears here, Older Characters - Timeskip Characters, Prince Prompto AU, Slow-ish burn, Some Tears Here Maybe Actually, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-07-05
Updated: 2020-07-29
Packaged: 2021-03-05 04:27:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 19,422
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25078345
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/sorchaas/pseuds/sorchaas
Summary: When Baby Brother Loqi presses a tiny, cold, pink nose against Prompto’s reddened cheek and giggles, he thinks that maybe the boy that replaced Mama isn’t so bad. And he had made a promise to protect him.
Relationships: Prompto Argentum/Noctis Lucis Caelum
Comments: 38
Kudos: 105





	1. Prologue

**Author's Note:**

> I've been working on a longfic for almost a year, but took a break in January to write this. Then abandoned it, then finished it recently lol. So, enjoy? Although it's very angsty, so maybe not.

Prologue

1\. Prompto’s earliest memory is of the golden-haired woman who holds him tight and reads to him as he drifts off to sleep. 

The bed he occupies is soft, and comforting – but much too big for his tiny frame. When the woman curls up beside him however, a leather-bound book in one hand, and a soft smile twitching on pink lips, he feels instead that it may be the perfect size. She reads to him gently from the old Niflheim tome, stories of princes and monsters and brave animal friends that never fail to capture his imagination before drifting off to sleep. She is not afraid to give voice to the characters on the pages. He tries to recall it years later, that voice - its tone, pitch, accent - but the sound is distant and obscured, much like the classical music emanating from down the hall where _Father_ works late into the night. 

_Thalassa_ , he thinks is her name. That’s what Father calls her at dinner. 

_Mama_ , is what he remembers shouting after her when she has finished their bedtime story. 

She turns to him, golden hair tumbling over her shoulder- but he finds her face is blurred and unknowable. She smiles, and whispers – _"Goodnight, my sweet boy."_

••••••

2\. Mama presses his tiny hand to her belly and tells him he is going to have a baby brother.

_"You will need to take care of him, Prompto. It is your responsibility."_

The child that he is gazes in wonderment, and asks mama why the baby is inside her belly.

_"I’m protecting him for now. And when he is born, you will protect him."_

Prompto thinks for a moment and then, with a three-year old innocence asks – _"How did he get in there, Mama?"_

She laughs, and removes his hand from her form - grips it in her own.

_"Oh my sweet boy, come. We will go to the gardens."_

It takes her a moment to rise from her chair, her free hand instinctively flying to her back to add some much-needed support for her growing body. Mama takes her camera from the side table on the way out, and through the intricate glass doorway that leads to the greenhouse they go.

••••••

3\. The monster visits him in the night, and he awakes to a cold, dark room.

The lamp by his bedside, _a usual deterrent to such creatures_ , has extinguished itself some time during the night. _That must be how the monster was able to cross his threshold._ He sucks in a gulp of cold air, and it takes all of the courage the three-year-old has to dart cross the ornate room, and pull open the heavy-set and gilded doors.

The candles in the hallway have dimmed considerably, but he is able to find his way quickly to Mama’s room. (He tiptoes so as not to wake Father or the palace staff – they will send him back to his room if they find him.) Instead he hears the soft click of the door, and carefully threads up to Mama’s bedside.

The moon casts its pale light through the open window, illuminating the sleeping form of his mother, huddled into her blanket and soft downy pillows. She hasn’t sensed him yet; she usually does - all too eager to hoist him up onto the mattress before they snuggle into one another, cosy and content.

_"Just for tonight, sweet boy."_

_"Ok, Mama."_

This time, Prompto is the one who reaches for her. But his small porcelain hand hesitates when he notices a thick black liquid pooling from the sheets and drip, drip, dripping slowly onto the cream carpeted floor.

_The monster must have visited Mama too._

••••••

4\. Baby Brother arrives, but Mama hasn’t come home yet.

Prompto sits on the sofa in the living room, the walls tall and ornate and imposing. It has been a few days since Mama was hurt; since _Nanny_ had found him sobbing and shouting for her to wake up. She bundled him back to his room, told him that Mama and Baby Brother would be fine, and that he must be brave and good.

Prompto waited eagerly by his bedroom window, in plain view of the front gate, every day for her return. Was afraid that if he took his eyes away, even for a moment, he would miss the sight of Mama gingerly carrying Baby Brother to his new home, and his new protector.

But now, opposite him, a lady that is not Mama is holding his baby brother. He eyes the wailing baby suspiciously because Mama _would not just leave him_. And she would not just leave Prompto. _That can’t be his baby brother,_ he reasons. It simply _must_ be a different baby.

But Father appears and sits beside Prompto, and his head is in his hands.

 _Not-Baby-Brother_ is still sobbing when Father pulls Prompto tight.

 _"It will be ok, Prompto."_

He whispers it into lemon coloured hair. _So much like Mama._ Prompto doesn’t understand why Father is sad or why that baby ( _that isn’t his brother_ ) is crying.

••••••

5\. _Mama_ is dead, and _Baby Brother_ is named Loqi.

Like Mama and Prompto, he has golden hair and ocean blue eyes. But that is where the similarities end between the brothers. Because Loqi is very much Father’s son, at least according to Uncle Verstael.

Prompto does not care for Uncle Verstael. He watches him over dinner, eyes leering at him with something Prompto does not understand, and sometimes he speaks to Father about Prompto like he’s not in the room.

_"I’m amazed this one is still around."_

_"At least you have a true heir to take your place in the Imperium now."_

_"It’s a shame that Thalassa took such a liking to that MT failure."_

Prompto doesn’t know what all the words mean, but he wishes Uncle Verstael would stop saying Mama’s name. He doesn’t deserve to say it. And even though it has been two winters since the monster visited Mama in the night - it still hurts Prompto to think about her.

••••••

6\. They play in the gardens of the Calcano Palace, no matter the season or weather.

They don’t see Father much these days, and Prompto assures Baby Brother Loqi that he hasn’t forgotten them. _"Father is an important person, Loqi. And he is quite busy. He must stay in the Gralean Palace to protect us, and the Country."_

Baby Brother Loqi smiles then and springs up from his spot on the ground, eager to resume their game of hide-and-seek. Loqi did not know Mama; he doesn’t know that Prompto worries every day that Father will not come back to them.

Niflheim is the land of always-winter, so the boys wear puffy coats and woollen hats when they dance and skip around the garden. Loqi knows all of the best games; he invents new ones every night before bed, and Prompto uses Mama’s camera to document every single one of them. When they are tired from playing, they lay down in the cold snow and make snow oracles– arms and legs flailing and crunching the snow beneath them. They are careful not to let Nanny see, or else there will be no hot cocoa waiting for them when they are inevitably called inside for the evening.

When Baby Brother Loqi presses a tiny, cold, pink nose against Prompto’s reddened cheek and giggles, he thinks that maybe the boy that replaced Mama isn’t so bad. _And he had made a promise to protect him._

••••••

7\. Prompto is eighteen, and sits anxiously in the Grand Assembly. 

His stomach twists into knots, and his heart pounds so loudly he thinks it might burst from his chest. Beside him, Brother Loqi whispers for him to stop fidgeting with his hands and his robes. Prompto swallows hard, and watches Father take his seat amongst the nobles of Gralea.

 _Loqi will be the next great Emperor of Niflheim,_ Father announces to the gathered assembly. Prompto hears faint gasps from those in attendance, but none voice any objections. They think he should be upset - the Councilmen, the audience. He is Father’s firstborn, after all. But when Prompto looks at Brother Loqi, and the boy is smiling so brightly - _just like their mother_ – he feels nothing but pride. _And relief_.

Behind him, his bodyguard Aranea places a comforting hand on his shoulder. His heartbeat evens out when Loqi stands beside Father on the dais, looking so alike, so regal, and perfect – to pose for their official photographs.

There is great merriment in the Palace that evening, but Prompto retires to his room early and sleeps soundly for the first time in years.

••••••

8\. Brother Loqi moves to the Imperial palace in Gralea soon after, and Prompto is left on his own. Except, this time, _there will be no replacement to soothe the ache left in his heart._

Father says that Loqi must learn to be Emperor, and he must do so quickly. He is barely sixteen ( _but almost taller than Prompto already, Uncle Verstael snides_ ) when all of his belongings are taken from their shared home in Calcano Palace and placed aboard an airship bound for the Capital.

_"You have kept me alive all these years, brother."_

Loqi laughs, and places a hand on Prompto’s cheek. He smiles sweetly at him, and Prompto realises for the first time that Uncle Verstael wasn’t _always wrong_. Because _Baby Brother Loqi_ is no longer a _baby_ , and he _is taller than Prompto_. They stand together on the steps of Calcano Palace, their childhood home – and Prompto feels something akin to dread; like something has changed now that cannot be unchanged.

 _It was my job,_ Prompto responds and hopes that Brother Loqi doesn’t notice the warm, stinging droplets in the corners of his blue eyes.

_"I will miss you, Prompto. Thank you."_

They share a hug, brief enough to appease the awaiting Emperor.

 _"We will still play King’s Knight,"_ Loqi whispers, and both hope that Father will not hear. And then with a smile that reaches the very depths of his bright, blue eyes – _so much like Prompto, so much like Mother_ \- Brother Loqi disappears into the waiting car and drives away with Father.

Prompto quickly resumes his studies. History, Geography, Politics, Herbalism, Marksmanship, Photography. Anything to take his mind from the loneliness he feels and the towering walls surrounding his home.

••••••

9\. Prompto has lived alone, save for his staff, in Calcano for almost ten years when he is summoned to Gralea by Father.

Prompto doesn’t mind the isolation in Calcano after a time. He has plenty of official duties to attend too, and keeps himself busy with his other hobbies when he thinks he might drown in the solitude. He ventures into the nearby town often, and most visits he goes unnoticed by the folk there, who are simply going about their business. He questions whether or not they know who he is, or if they simply do not care – and Prompto finds that neither answer bothers him too much.

He frequently passes time with Aranea in the gardens, or hiking the surrounding countryside to find rare specimens to photograph and document. And there’s a boy who works in the library that Prompto thinks he might love. They’ve shared a handful of tender kisses and fumbled touches under cover of darkness, and away from prying eyes that might report such _salacious_ activity back to Father.

Brother Loqi speaks with him often, and complains that Prompto has kept him up _far too late_ playing King’s Knight on too many occasions. Prompto only grins when Brother Loqi tells him of the chiding he has gotten from Father for being tired during early morning tutoring sessions.

He sees Father only on holiday occasions, so Prompto is not expecting to hear from or see Father until the Summer Solstice at the very earliest. That is until quite early into the New Year, however, when a car pulls up outside the Palace and General Glauca informs him that he will be taken to the Imperial Palace forthwith. Aranea narrows her eyes at the man, but doesn’t object when Prompto is whisked away. Barely has time to grab the old camera, that has been gathering dust over the winter months.

Uncle Verstael is dead, Father informs them at dinner in Gralea that evening, and Prompto breathes a sigh of relief.

For as long as Prompto can remember, he has been afraid of Science Minister Verstael. And for good reason. The memory of cruel words, longful glances, and ghosted touches choke him as Father speaks mournfully of his dear friend. He should have been upset when Loqi became Father’s heir, even though Prompto was the eldest; but it meant he had even less interaction with Uncle Verstael and for that reason alone, he was happy to be publicly cast aside by Father that afternoon many years ago in the Grand Assembly.

Uncle Verstael never bothered Loqi the way he bothered Prompto. _And now he bothers no one, because Uncle Verstael is rotting in the Grand Cathedral in Gralea._

Prompto tunes out Father’s talk of the villainous Lucian King and his own dwindling MT forces. He is happy, for once, and has to fight the grin that tugs at the corner of his lips. Loqi notices, furrowing his brow from across the dining table, and Prompto quickly neutralises his expression before someone who is _not Loqi_ sees his elation.

He will be sent back to Calcano after the state funeral for Verstael, when the media have seen the united front from Emperor Aldercapt and his _two sweet, strong, golden-haired sons,_ and none of this will impact the peaceful solitude that is Prompto’s life.

He pushes the peas around on his plate, and waits for Father to excuse them.

••••••

10\. On the eve of his return to Calcano, Prompto is beckoned to Father’s study and told he will be marrying Prince Noctis Lucis Caelum.

He feels his heart ache in his chest, not for the first time in his short life, and Father only presses his fingertips together in front of his face. He shows no sign of torment, and does not make eye contact with his son. He simply stares down at the pages in front of him. It may be foolish to imagine that this decision weighs heavily on Father, _that it is hard for him to trade his darling son to his worst enemy to ensure peace._ But Prompto allows himself the momentary romanticism. _That must be why the man cannot bear to look at him,_ he reasons.

Because surely Father would not throw him to the wolves like that, he wouldn’t abandon him. _Not again._ Prompto bites hard on the skin inside his lip at the bitter realisation, and the taste of metal fills his mouth. Father has never given him reason to think that he loves Prompto _as much as he loves_ Brother Loqi. Prompto was simply a useless instrument, shelved in Calcano until he had purpose. He thinks he might throw up soon.

There is a burning in the corners of his eyes, and the tension quickly expands to grip his throat and nasal passages. Prompto fights to control the rising panic attack threatening to engulf him. Father does not like weakness, and he will be reprimanded – even though Prompto is twenty-six years old now, and a grown man.

Father talks at length about the death of Uncle Verstael, and his unparalleled knowledge of their magitek army. _Without him, we cannot hope to win the war against Lucis,_ Father explains. Prompto swallows the lump in his throat, trying his best not to tremble in front of the Emperor. Father explains what is expected of him – _continuing to ignore the trauma settling around his young son_ \- he must marry the Lucian Prince and ensure peace between their nations. He must do it to ensure the safety of Niflheim, her citizens, and of _Brother Loqi._

It would be years before Prompto was able to recognise those words for what they were: emotional blackmail. Instead he stays quiet, because no one – _not even the second Prince of Niflheim_ – can disagree with the Emperor’s decision. _And he thinks of his Mother's only request of him._

_And when he is born, you will protect him._

Prompto swallows hard, the pain behind his eyes slowly starts to envelope him and all he wants is his bed at Calcano. When Father has finished speaking, he waves Prompto away, and General Glauca opens the door behind him. He stands before the sturdy walnut desk belonging to his Father, inlayed with gilding and precious stones, and feels nothing save for a hollowness where his heart should be.

In an uncharacteristic rush of boldness, he asks: - _"Are you decided, father?"_

_"Yes."_

It feels like an age that he stands before Father, hoping that the man will meet his gaze; that he will gather his eldest boy in his arms and hold him, and tell him that he was wrong, and that he loves him, and that he would never send him away like that. But Father does not relent, and he does not dare look his son in the eye.

Prompto bows before the Emperor and swiftly returns to his rooms in the Palace. He doesn’t go back to Calcano, and he doesn’t find out whether he did in fact love that boy from the library.

••••••

11\. Prompto is elated one month later, when news reaches the Imperial Palace of tyrant King Regis’ abdication, in favour of his son Prince Noctis. The earlier treaty is quickly voided by the young Monarch. And along with it, Prompto’s impending marriage.

The assembly is atwitter, and Prompto tries his best to cover the delight on his face when Father and the other councilmen discuss their next course of action. It is quickly overshadowed when Prompto realises that Father and the council are _frightened_. They talk of crystals with untold magical power, legendary Lucian swordsmen, and something called the Kingsglaive. The atmosphere becomes tense very quickly, and Aranea sighs behind him.

_"If it weren’t for you kid, I would’ve left this mess behind me a long time ago."_

Brother Loqi sits beside Father, and he looks equally frightened. His eyes are no longer as bright as they once were, and shallow lines of exhaustion are etched across his much-too-young skin. He lips are pulled tight, and he looks _far too much like Father_ , Prompto decides. _It is unsettling._

He worries for his brother, for how this will affect his ever-approaching reign. Prompto was supposed to protect him. Mother had been clear, and it was the only thing she had asked of him. Maybe marrying the Prince- well, the King would have ensured that.

His stomach starts to turn violently once more, worries for the safety of his Brother, and Father, and Country. _But not himself._ The guilt of his own selfishness is overwhelming.

••••••

12\. When the Council meeting is adjourned, they are no closer to a solution.

Many begin to resign to their defeat at the hands of the bloodthirsty Lucian King, waiting beyond their borders like a spider ready to engulf his prey. Prompto wonders what that will mean for the Royal Family of Niflheim, but quickly finds that it does not bear thinking about.

He ventures outside – desperate for the fresh, crisp air that Niflheim snow brings. He trembles in the cold night air, but it is exactly what his aching lungs have been crying out for. Aranea closes the thick wooden door behind him, and he sobs into the sleeve of his white robes, thick and disoriented.

The almost-boiling tears slide down his porcelain skin and melt the snow beneath them, like tiny drops of acid dissolving anything in their path. It takes a few more moments of laboured sobbing before he finally starts to regain his composure. He is still blubbering, and sniffling, but there is no one around to console him – even in a Palace full of people.

He wraps his robes tighter around him, feeling the chill of the crunched snow even against the leather of his boots. He closes his eyes tight, wishing he could go back - to see his Mother's face, and hear her voice. Have her read to him, and hold his hand, and spend hours together in this very garden, repotting plants as best as his stubby little hands could.

Instead, he stays in the present and wonders how it all came to this.

••••••


	2. A Cold Shoulder for your Tears to Freeze On

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Baby Brother Loqi presses a tiny, cold, pink nose against Prompto’s reddened cheek and giggles, he thinks that maybe the boy that replaced Mama isn’t so bad. And he had made a promise to protect him.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I could give this multiple hundreds of passes and I will still never be 100% happy with it. Also I split the next chapter into two parts because it was getting too long. So this now sits at six parts in total.

A Cold Shoulder for your Tears to Freeze On

1\. Prompto has never left Niflheim before he steps onto the train to Tenebrae early that spring morning. 

Father and the council restart negotiations with Lucis, far across the great Cygillian ocean and it isn’t long before both sides are agreeing to suspend hostilities once more. There is a gleeful look in Father’s eyes when the missive from Insomnia is read out to the Imperium by General Glauca. 

_“Lucis is weakened. They are eager for an armistice,”_ he whispers to Loqi.

The boy, no - the future Emperor, smirks and Prompto is aghast, reminded only of Uncle Verstael and the way his lip would curl when he spoke. Peering, piercing with yellow eyes and the malevolence of a coiled snake ready to bite.

Prompto does not wish to see Loqi corrupted and twisted into anything akin to Verstael. _Or Father_. But Loqi will not meet his gaze, and Prompto finds it difficult to establish his brother's attention. He can only watch as Father pulls him further into the abyss, luring him with the promise and seduction that only an Empire can instil. 

It was only weeks ago that Father was ready to export Prompto across Eos to save their homeland from certain extermination at the hands of the _‘weakened’_ Lucis. He wants nothing more than to point out this absurdity, allow Loqi the opportunity to think for himself, and give voice to his own thoughts. Astrals know he will need to learn to do that, lest the Council rule _for him_ after Father’s demise. 

There is a sudden moment of clarity that falls over him, feels his own bitterness and the cold draught of the Imperium flowing through him, and Prompto wonders if this sudden animosity for Father is simply a self-preservation instinct. Lashing out to insulate himself against the hurt that is now almost inevitable. He feels a hopelessness grip ahold of his chest like a vice, and all he wants is to curl up in his bed at Calcano and forget about the world outside. But there is no running from this situation now, and it is only going to end one of two ways. _His death, or his excommunication to Insomnia._ Prompto isn’t sure which is preferable.

He holds his tongue, not wanting to draw attention to himself, and allows the council and Father to incite one another even further. 

••••••

2\. It is decided that Father will travel to Tenebrae ( _a neutral ally to both Lucis and Niflheim_ ) to convene with the Lucian delegation and their new King. 

Prompto is not much involved in their hushed conversations throughout the journey, and he much prefers it that way. He hopes that if he sinks into his seat, Father will forget about his existence, and any future plans he and the Council have concocted for him. 

Loqi’s absence, however, casts that delusion into extreme doubt. Father is not bringing Prompto to Tenebrae to see the sylleblossoms. He is bringing him as a peace offering. Or something more nefarious, Prompto can’t decide. He closes his eyes and wonders if the train might derail on the final leg of their journey north. Drifts off to sleep with the screeching sound of brakes, and metal, and fire, and the drip- drip- dripping of blood filling his dreams. 

••••••

3\. Father seats himself opposite Prompto when the rest of the passengers have already disembarked from the royal passenger car. 

They arrive in Tenebrae to little fanfare, and the guards are busy completing a security sweep before the two royals disembark. Prompto just wants to breath still air once again, and when Father sighs and sits so close to him that he can feel the warmth of his body, he feels even more suffocated. 

_"You must promise me, Prompto."_

He already dreads the rest of Father’s statement. Because, deep down, Prompto knows he will promise Father anything.

_"You must promise me that you only have the Empire in your heart. Your dear Father. Your young Brother."_

The Empire is not one man, or two men – Prompto knows this. He has known this since he was old enough to read books he picked out for himself from the dusty part of the palace library where no one thought he would ever venture. But he doesn’t say this to Father, and he still doesn’t quite know why he cannot use his voice around this man after all these years. He doesn’t tell him that he thinks that maybe the Empire is greater and something more important than their family of three. Prompto only nods in response to the man still sternly awaiting acknowledgement. Father’s eyes dart around the room, and Prompto holds his breath.

 _"You must do exactly as I say, my son."_

Prompto knows he might do anything if it garners Father’s approval. 

••••••

4\. Prompto is not involved in the first day of talks between the warring parties, but he is all the gladder – because he meets Lady Lunafreya of Tenebrae and he thinks she might be the smartest woman in the entire world. 

She knows much of the Empire, asks all manner of questions about Calcano, and Gralea. Of Shiva, the time-frozen Glacian, laying across the icy tundra of northern Niflheim, just as she has since she was cast down centuries ago. And she ponders the new airships that Father has built, that can accommodate an entire cities population. Prompto finds it hard to keep up.

 _Your Empire_ , she calls it when she speaks of his homeland. Lady Lunafreya doesn’t know that _nothing_ in Niflheim could be considered Prompto’s, much less the Empire that Loqi will one day inherit. 

She is considerate not to bring too much attention to the specifics of the accord being discussed inside her home when she shows Prompto around the gardens of Fenestala manor, her dogs running alongside them in the afternoon warmth, eager to play and jump up against Prompto’s legs whenever he stops moving. He assumes it is his for his benefit, and thinks that she knows that he may yet have a role to play in the discussion. 

Lunafreya says that her mother’s neutrality will ensure a quick and fair resolution.

 _"My mother is quite fond of King Regis and his son,"_ she says. _"And she speaks highly of your Father."_

Prompto nods along. Queen Sylva, he understands, is well respected amongst her peers and thought of as a fair and wise ruler. Prompto knows this because Father has told him so, on numerous occasions, and he has sought her counsel more often than that. He trusts her implicitly to conduct the talks between Niflheim and the Lucian King without favouritism. 

Prompto also knows that Father is deathly afraid of offending the Astral Gods or their chosen, the Oracle Queen Sylva. It might be the only thing Father is afraid of. And it might be the only reason that the Niflheim Empire has not expanded north to conquer Tenebrae. 

Soon Lunafreya links her arm with his, and pulls him towards the manor.

_"Come, lunch is served. And I would like to introduce you to my brother."_

••••••

5\. Prompto does not recognise the Lucian King when they meet for the first time in the lamp-lit gardens of Fenestala manor. 

It is hard to sleep in Tenebrae, not only owing to his rising anxiety, but because of the insufferable humidity. They are far north of the glittering snowfields of Niflheim, and Prompto finds great difficulty finding comfort in the balmy night air. He contemplates texting Loqi, despite the late hour - he knows his brother will be awake and worrying about their safety and the outcome of the discussions this afternoon. But he decides against it. 

Prompto is still curious about the talks that afternoon; Father had not been in the mood for conversation when they had taken dinner together privately in their shared quarters, and he had asked Aranea to spy for him, but she returned with little information. 

_"Nothing about you, my dear."_

He had breathed a sigh of relief, but it wasn’t enough to sate his curiosity, or untie the knot in his stomach. 

Small beads of sweat cling to his forehead above his almost-white eyebrows, and he finally relents; there will be no sleeping tonight. He slips a cream coloured coat on over his nightclothes and leaves the ornate bedroom via the veranda and descends into the verdure-thickened gardens that Lady Lunafreya had indulged him with that afternoon. 

There is an old stone bench not too far from the main house, a few weeds cling to its legs, poking up from the cobbles beneath and Prompto claims it as his own. He sits down, knees pulled to his chest, and extracts the phone from the depths of his coat pocket. Prompto is immediately entranced, and he doesn’t notice the other night-time trespasser to the gardens, until-

_"Can’t sleep either?"_

_"Fu-"_

He almost jolts off the bench in surprise. He thinks he hears an apology, but his heart is busy convulsing and pushing blood to all of his extremities at rapid speed. It takes a moment to regain his composure and to focus his eyes on the blurred figure in the near distance. In the darkness, he looks more like a smudge than a person, but Prompto can just about see one hand stuffed into the pocket of his black pants and something amber and glowing in the other. 

His frightened breathing slows, but he still eyes the stranger with suspicion.

_“Not really.”_

Prompto isn’t sure if the man is Lucian or Tenebrae’n – but he definitely isn’t a member of the Niflheim contingent. The dark hair that comes into focus, and the equally muted clothing would suggest a Lucian heritage. _But surely a foreigner wouldn’t be wandering around their hosts manor in the dead of night, enemies at the turn of every corner, and without so much as a guard for protection._

 _Oh,_ he thinks to himself, the irony not lost on him. _He probably should have woken Aranea._

The stranger sighs, and Prompto can only watch as he walks closer and closer, until he sits down on the bench beside him. Five feet is not a good enough distance to be comfortable, and Prompto feels himself withdrawing further to the edge. Those extra inches feel much safer and reassuring. But he is _most definitely going to be murdered_ , he decides. He had read far too many stories that ended this way.

The moments pass painfully, and he can hear his own heartbeat in his ears; the blood rushing through his veins with adrenaline, and he thinks if he starts running now he can make it back to the veranda within seconds. 

But… nothing happens. The stranger stubs out a cigarette he had been holding all this time, but Prompto hadn’t seen him take so much as a drag. It emits a small stream of suffocated smoke, and Prompto realises he must be staring, because the man waves the dying cigarette in front of him. The smoke comes in tiny tendrils now. 

_"You didn’t see this, if anyone asks."_

Prompto gives his best performance of a man at ease around a stranger, nods and crosses his ankles that he stretches out across the cobbles. His breathing has slowed down considerably, because the interloper doesn’t seem like a threat to him – the man reclines into the bench with a relaxed gait and stuffs both hands into his pockets. 

He casts a quick glance to his periphery, trying to identify this man further, because something about him seems familiar. But Prompto cannot place him, and he’s much too hesitant to move closer to take a closer inspection. 

A loud notification sound disrupts their stony silence, and Prompto is sure that half of the manor will have awoken in their beds. He’s even more embarrassed that he recognises the tone as that of the _King’s Knight_ app, (probably Loqi initiating a midnight match) and he quickly fumbles the device in his hand, eager to silence it. He hopes the man beside him doesn’t identify the sound; it would be wholly distressing to have the entire sum of the Niflheim, Lucian, and Tenebrae’n governments apprised of the fact that the Prince of Niflheim plays a mobile game, aimed at teenagers. That humiliation would surely rile Father, who had long since forbidden Prompto and Loqi from engaging in such _distractions_.

_"You play King’s Knight?"_

Prompto feels the entirety of his blood volume rush to his face, his blood vessels dilating from the sheer embarrassment of those four words. He swallows thickly, and immediately snaps his head to look directly at his accuser. _It’s not my phone. No, it’s a different notification sound._ Before he can choose which ruse to deploy, the stranger smirks.

 _"Me too,"_ he says holding his phone out, as if offering proof of that fact. 

He doesn’t know how to respond, because for the longest time the only people he knew that used the app were Prompto and Loqi. _And several kids whose parents worked at Calcano or Gralea._ It is completely foreign to think other adults shared their interest for the strategy-fantasy app. It's even stranger to think that the _King_ of Lucis plays King's Knight. His reply is that of what sounds like a choked laugh. He instantly hates himself and clears his throat. 

The other man discards his phone down onto the bench, alongside his unused cigarette. 

_“I’m Prompto.”_

He doesn’t quite understand what compels him to reveal his name to his unknown companion, it just happens. And he _really_ cannot fathom why the man _laughs. Rather loudly._ Prompto furrows his brow, taking offence to the manner in which the stranger’s mouth hangs open so rudely. He folds his arms across his stomach and settles back into the bench. 

_"I know who you are."_

_"You do?"_

The stranger turns, and looks at him with what can only be described as perplexity. And suddenly the face that once seemed familiar -but not- comes swiftly into focus, and Prompto feels an illogical rush of surprise. He knows that the Lucian King is also visiting the manor, but the realisation still hits him with the speed of a coeurl. The man looks familiar to him, because he is a doppelganger for his father, King Regis – whose portrait Prompto has seen many a time over the years. Prompto only laughs half-heartedly, and looks away from the young King beside him and up to the night sky. His neck is sore from the incorrect angling, and he feels like an absolute idiot. 

_"You’re Noctis."_

Neither speak to one another for a long while after that, and Prompto wonders if maybe he will be killed after all. Because Father has spent most of his life impressing upon him the evil nature of all Lucians. It’s almost unsettling to Prompto; the juxtaposition between the image of a bloodthirsty, power-hungry madman that Father has painted all these years, and the seemingly normal man that cannot sleep, sitting beside him quietly in the lamp-lit gardens.

He holds his breath, and Prompto realises he is afraid. But he doesn’t know of what. 

_“It was nice to meet you,”_ Noctis says finally.

Prompto hadn’t seen him stand, or take his discarded property from the bench. He can only offer a curt nod, no time to think of anything else to say, and watches as the young man meanders into the darkness, his hands in his pockets once again.

••••••

6\. Ignis is adamant that no father would discard their own son if he did not believe in peace between their nations, and Clarus is inclined to agree. 

There are many concessions made by both parties in the developing treaty. Broad terms of trade and travel are agreed upon very early. However, Cor believes the Emperor is exaggerating the strength of his armies, and he begs Noctis to put pause to this façade and give him leave to infiltrate Niflheim and uncover the truth. Nyx agrees with the Marshall, _for once_ – insists that the Glaive have _more_ than enough fortitude left to fight. 

The conclave he has gathered seem more than happy to fight both amongst themselves _and Niflheim_. Their voices and hands raised late into the night, and each believing he knows what is best for the Kingdom of Lucis. But any decision ultimately belongs to her King. 

The Niflheim affair has long since been part of their lives. Almost as long as Noctis can remember, their two nations have been at odds. He wonders if there will ever be a time when children from opposite continents on opposite sides of the world, are not raised to inherit a war from their predecessors. Much like he himself had. 

Regis had tried. When it came to Niflheim and her Emperor, he had undoubtedly gave himself wholly to their attempts at peace. Noctis knows that was partly to save his only son from a similar fate- locked in an endless stalemate with the combative Empire. He cannot fault his Father for it.

But the former King is ailing now, and weakened from a lifetime of protecting a crystal that siphons his very lifeforce, leaving him hollow and blunted. Now it is Noctis’ turn to treat with Niflheim, and despite what anyone thinks, he takes no pleasure in that. 

He knows that the Emperor does not take him as seriously as he had his predecessors – his father and grandfather before him. He can tell from the smirk adorning the Emperor’s mouth all afternoon. But the Emperor doesn’t know the true extent of the power that rest within the ring adorning Noctis’ left hand. There are moments when he wonders what it would be like to unleash it – to have the fires swallow up the Empire and put paid to their worries once and for all.

In another life, he would agree with Cor and Nyx, and fall to the allure of the ring adoring his hand. But that is not what Regis wants, or what he hoped for when he passed the reins to his son. 

_"Emperor Aldercapt is aging quickly,"_ Clarus says. _"Perhaps he wants to draw a line under this matter before his son inherits his throne."_

Ignis will always agree with a more diplomatic point of view, and is quick to concur with the elder Councilman. He truly believes that the Emperor proposing a marriage between his son and the Lucian King is a show of good faith in the proposed terms of peace. 

_"Or a clever way of getting a spy into the Citadel,"_ Nyx is quick to interject.

 _“I’ve met him,”_ Noctis finds himself saying soon after, thinking of the seemingly shy blonde from the gardens the previous evening. _“He doesn’t seem like he could spy.”_

Beside him, Gladio snickers. His feet rest on the table and his hands cross over his body in repose. It’s his first contribution all evening, but Noctis can’t blame him because the conversation has been going in circles for almost two days now.

_"We must put aside our enmity for Niflheim and treat this matter in good faith. We didn’t come all this way to make jokes, or to walk away empty handed. We came here to settle this matter, that your Father has worked very hard on for many years, I might add. We are so very close to concluding this chapter, and we must treat the matter with the respect it deserves. ”_

Noctis feels scolded. He is the King of Lucis, Ruler of Insomnia – _the greatest city on Eos._ And he was scolded by his advisor, a man not that much older than himself. Even Cor and Nyx keep quiet afterwards. 

_"It would be foolish to walk away now, Noct."_

He sighs, mind-weary and exhausted already. Ignis is correct. They’d invested too much into the peace process with Niflheim to walk away from the table now. And he thinks on his Father’s ailing health, the man but a shadow of the King he used to be. Frail, and everyday more forgetful. The last of his vigour long since exerted by the crystal inside the Citadel walls. Regis will not outlast another round of open hostilities with a strengthened Niflheim. 

_"Ok,"_ he says then to the other men in the room, his decision, he realised, has long since been made.

_"Let’s try and make this happen."_

••••••


	3. What’s Gone Just Won’t Come Back

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Another Monday morning update, and we're halfway through. Also I have a tumblr (@sorchas) that I occassionally use, so do with that information whatever you like.

What’s Gone Just Won’t Come Back

1\. Prompto has studied the geography of Eos extensively. Understands planetary rotation, and latitude, and axial tilt better than most citizens could probably ever dare to dream. A quality education is an absolute priority in Niflheim if one wanted to get ahead, and especially so for the Emperor’s sons – both educated by the finest scholar’s the Empire had to offer. Even after they both entered adulthood, this continued. 

Prompto understands, but still finds it fascinating each morning -even though he has witnessed it for three whole seasons now- when the sun rises above the horizon before 6am and doesn’t set till well after ten that evening. The morning birds chirp and whistle loudly, and Prompto feels rested and eager to jump out of bed to start his morning jog. If he were in Calcano, it would be another two hours still before the grey sky had any source of light to guide his weary steps. 

The ink on the Niflheim-Lucis accord has long since dried. Prompto’s personal effects have been transported across the great Cygillian ocean, taking pride of place in his apartment at the Citadel now, instead of gathering dust (no matter how often the staff wiped it away) in the venerable halls of Niflheim. The initial period of upheaval had been difficult, through Autumn and Winter especially, and Prompto found it easier to lock himself away in his rooms; he didn’t want to see anyone – except Loqi or Aranea. But that was an impossibility. More often than not, he had retired to his bed early in the evening. Closed his eyes and prayed, a hushed whisper into a cold pillow. To wake in another place, or another time. _Or not at all._

But Spring has so far been gentler on his spirit. 

And he has found the Lucians are friendlier than he believed they would be. He returns from his morning jog (accompanied by two still-unnamed Glaive) and Ignis has prepared the morning papers as usual, along with breakfast. _The Niflheim Times_ is placed on top of the pile, although it is a day old. Prompto only smiles at Ignis, he doesn’t want to ask how Ignis has managed to have it brought to Insomnia with such speed each day. And he definitely doesn’t tell the extremely generous and thoughtful retainer that he could just as easily read the articles online. But he appreciates the act of kindness nonetheless, and makes sure to tell Ignis so. He makes a show of grabbing the broadsheet and plopping himself down on the sofa, alongside his breakfast, and reads every inch of text. Ignis, obviously proud of himself, leaves Prompto to his morning. 

Other staff are pleasant enough; the Glaive do their job mostly and they don’t speak much, but that was standard with Niflheim soldiers too. He doesn’t see Noctis too often during the day, although that isn’t peculiar because he is ruling an _entire Kingdom_. And the Citadel is a big place. Although it is becoming more regular that they dine together, along with the rest of the main household. Prompto surprisingly doesn’t find it as uncomfortable as he thought it would be. He subconsciously checks his phone for the _King’s Knight_ invitation that usually pops up on his phone by mid-morning. But there is nothing but an old message from Aranea that he has yet to respond to. 

He still feels like a guest most days, even after all these months. Never quite at home, and always a little wary and listening for whispered insults in the halls of the Citadel or on the streets of Insomnia. But Ignis informs him over supper, that Lucis is enjoying unprecedented growth and economic prosperity, owing directly to the peace between Niflheim and Lucis. Loqi relays similar information about their homeland. And so Prompto convinces himself that it would be wrong to be anything other than happy with the arrangement. 

He tries to ignore the hurt that is still simmering below the surface, and plasters a smile to his face when Ignis returns, clears his tray, and asks Prompto if he is ready to start his day. 

••••••

2\. Caem has been good for Regis, Noctis can see that in his softened features and cheerful demeanour. Rising early to fish and retiring early to sleep would suit him _just fine_ too; Noctis isn’t ashamed to admit he is a little resentful of his Father’s newfound freedom at the royal summer residence. 

The abdication was not something either of them relished. What little vigour Regis has regained over the past year, is at Noctis’ expense ultimately. Neither of them mention the obvious weight that he now carries with him everywhere. Regis has not yet reached his sixtieth year and the lion’s share of his vitality has long since been spent by the Lucian Crystal. This was the fate he had handed to his son on a platter, unable to bear its load any longer. Regis had said, with a mirth that bordered on facetious, that Noctis was stronger than his Father, and so would carry their familiar burden easier. Every morning Noctis wakes and stares at the ring on his left hand; wonders if Regis’ words are truthful, or just something he said to assuage an uneasy conscience. 

“You used to love it here. As a child,” Regis calls back to him. He doesn’t use his walking cane today, and for that at least Noctis is glad. Regis is inspecting the vegetables growing in the garden just outside the house – carrots, onions, herbs. Anything that was easy to take care of, and that could withstand being forgotten about for a few days. Regis was no master botanist. Clarus trails nearby in relative silence. Even if the King had retired, his shield had not. 

“That was a long time ago,” he finally replies. 

He loved Caem, that is true. Sitting on the cliffs late into the night, and ocean-fishing at the break of dawn on what were seemingly endless summer vacations. Now it is difficult to think of Caem as anything other than the place his Father will die someday not too far from now. 

“You should bring Prompto next time you visit,” Regis calls, inspecting a row of plants much smaller than the rest. Noctis can tell he hasn’t watered them in some time, and the few staff members at Caem are under strict orders from Regis himself not to interfere with the garden. He wishes they would take _some_ initiative, disregard the instruction, and save his Father any further embarrassment.

He insists that Prompto, from what he knows of him, is not the fishing sort. Regis laughs, but is quick to remind his son that he is yet to meet the newest arrival to the Citadel. 

“Well, maybe if you’d return to Insomnia on occasion, you would have already met him.” 

Noctis immediately regrets his words. Regis’ smile is thawing, and there is a minute shake of his greying head that most others would miss. It would be asking too much; reminding him of his failure to stay the course, and of the pain and grief he had left behind. Noctis knows that Regis will not return to Insomnia, the ancestral seat of their line, in this lifetime. 

The King leaves soon after, and Regis walks him back to the Regalia. Gladio sits in the passenger seat, his face already buried in a book. 

“Bring Prompto,” Regis whispers while embracing his son, and Noctis just nods. He’s eager to leave Caem, and bury himself in work back at the Citadel. 

“I want you to be happy,” he says quietly, as if not wanting Gladio to hear. Noctis has already pulled away from his Father, one hand rests on the car door. “I know it may not be the way you envisaged, but this reign will be more peaceful than any other in recent memory.” 

Noctis had never _‘envisaged’_ much - had grown up knowing what was expected of him, and that was that. Personal feelings never seemed to enter into any equation or any lesson he had been taught since birth, and he had made his peace with that a long time ago. 

“I know, dad.” 

••••••

3\. Most coastal regions in Niflheim that Prompto has visited over the years are a bleak affair. The destructive combination of cold-water currents, equatorial distance, and the frigid corpse of Shiva have made not only the landscape, but the surrounding ocean, treacherous. 

Father had promised Prompto and Loqi as children that they would one day visit the white sandy beaches of the east coast – out past the arid desert region of Niflheim. But like many of Father’s promises, it fell by the wayside soon after. But now that Prompto has seen the spectacle that is Caem, the bright blue ocean taking his breath away, he wonders if they would even compare. 

“How many pictures you take today?” 

Gladio stands next to him, and Prompto is embarrassed when he tells him the number is now in the dozens. Gladio laughs, and pats his shoulder. It felt strange at first, the friendly contact – but Prompto has quickly adjusted. 

“You want a picture of this one?” 

Noctis shouts over from where he stands on the rocky shore. He’s holding another large ocean fish, and like all the others – Prompto is eager to document it. He rushes to the waters edge, careful with his footing when he steps out onto the slippery sharp rocks, and snaps a shot of the man and his prize. It’s a good one too – adorned with beautiful black and white stripes, and a large spiked fin. Noctis tells him the name of the fish, and Prompto nods along. Fish are one species on this planet he has never had any interest to study before now, and he finds himself with a genuine enthusiasm throughout the afternoon. It might be the most relaxed he has felt in months.

Although, he is beginning to suspect that Noctis is making the names up on the spot, just to mess with him. Several of them look to be the same species but do not share the same name, and every so often he can hear Gladio laughing in the background. Noctis only smirks when he thinks Prompto isn't looking. Of course, he throws the fish back into the ocean after Prompto has inspected them, and so he is unable to prove his suspicions. 

He hears the King’s shield grunt somewhere behind them, closer to the trail they used earlier than their camp on the shore, and finds him dispatching a small group of fiends that had gathered. _Likely eyeing them up for lunch._ Prompto wants to inform Gladio that he has _excellent_ marksmanship training – could help him discharge the most vicious of the them. But he doesn’t think they would allow him to use a weapon for now; especially so close to Noctis, and definitely not Regis. He swallows the thought and winces every time he hears Gladio curse under his breath. But Noctis doesn’t so much as flinch, throws his line back into the water, and that eases Prompto’s concern if only a little. 

The blue-sky fades into pink when Noctis begins to pack up his belongings. Prompto and Gladio have long since tired, and sit huddled on the end of the dock, looking through the photographs saved on his memory card. Prompto doesn’t believe Gladio is even remotely interested in his photography, but he appreciates the feigned interest.

“You can drive if you like, I’m too tired.” 

They have packed the cooler and equipment into the car already, and it takes Prompto a moment to realise Noctis is speaking to him, and not Gladio. Because Gladio is already reclining in the back seat, hands behind his head and eyes shut tight to the dwindling sunlight. Prompto hasn’t driven in quite some time – the last was probably when he was still living at Calcano palace, and that was over a year ago now. But he doesn’t hesitate, and sees the keys are already in the ignition. He will take any ounce of personal freedom he can take. Before long, they are off. 

“Careful,” Noctis says when Prompto pulls out a little too fast. He’d hoped neither Noctis nor Gladio had noticed. 

_“I know how to drive,”_ he replies under his breath. 

“Oh?” Noctis doesn’t miss a beat, and looks directly at him instead of the road. “And here I thought you were locked up in a tower your whole life.” 

His grin is contagious, and Prompto can’t help the laugh that escapes the back of his throat. 

“You’re funny,” he replies dryly – noting the sarcasm. “But I wouldn’t worry if I were you.” 

“Oh?” 

“There are… _about a dozen_ Glaive, probably watching my every move right now. To make sure I don’t drive you off this cliff.” 

Noctis snorts. 

“No,” Prompto continues. “If there _was_ an accident, they’d rescue you in seconds. Me on the other hands, well – I should be the one worried.” 

Noctis doesn’t turn away, but seems to think about it for a moment. “I’d make sure they rescued you, too.” 

Prompto only smiles in reply, strangely believing him. 

Before long, they’re back at Caem, where Regis and the house staff have prepared dinner – _not fish_. All three ravenous after their long afternoon spent outdoors. It is the longest period of time he has spent with Noctis since he arrived in Lucis, and he finds himself not hating his company. The same went for Gladio, and Regis, and Clarus. He sips the white wine in his glass, contemplating everything he had been told about these people throughout his formative years. And none of it makes sense… They’re laughing about something, but Prompto doesn’t hear what. 

“Prompto, let me tell you about the time Noctis slept through his university entrance exams.” 

“Dad, no!” 

••••••

4\. Prompto vaguely hears his phone beep during the night, but in his half-asleep stupor he ignores it until the next morning. 

He rises early as usual; his well-practiced routine sees him pull on the shorts and t-shirt left freshly laundered and folded on the chair nearest his bed. It is only when he grabs his phone, earphones still attached, that he notices the icon lit up in the corner of the device. A late reply from Loqi to their correspondence the previous evening. 

**Thursday** 23:36 PM  
  
**Loqi:** I’m good, and Father is well. Are you keeping your spirits up in Insomnia?  
  
**Prompto:** I’m trying. Missing home, obviously. I’ll hopefully see you both soon though, perhaps for the wedding. It’s late here brother, so I think I’ll turn in for the night. Goodnight!  
  
**Friday** 03:27 AM  
  
**Loqi:** You will return home soon, brother. Don’t worry, I will see to it. Sleep well.  
  


Prompto stares at the message for a long moment, trying to unscramble the meaning behind his brother’s words. He feels an uneasy sense of trepidation settle in the pit of his stomach. Remembers the smirk on Loqi’s face that afternoon in the Imperium, the curl of uncle Verstael’s lip, and the way Father had all but ignored his desperate pleas for clemency the evening of the treaty signing in Tenebrae. He doesn’t realise that he has been holding his breath, until his lungs are screaming for oxygen. 

Loqi could be drafting any number of irrational plans, and Prompto needs to douse any flames that are simmering in Niflheim. In his panic, he considers talking to Ignis – or even the Marshall. But that would just create more conflict, at a time when the slightest hiccup could upend the delicate peace they had created only one year ago. He decides to keep the information to himself; it is his brother after all – and hopes he can maintain the amity between their two nations. He quickly taps out a reply to Loqi, hoping it will be enough to satiate his brother’s obvious suffering. _At least someone in Niflheim misses him,_ he thinks to himself. His bitterness is less an open wound these days, and more an ache. 

**Friday** 06:54 AM  
**Prompto:** I’m safe, Brother, and that is all that matters. Look after Father.   
  


  


••••••

5\. Prompto does not need a replacement for his younger brother, but he thinks he might have found one accidentally, when he is introduced to Iris Amicitia. His new shield, sworn to protect him from any and all foes – even at the cost of her own life. 

But this girl is perky, and engaging, and she giggles instead of laughing, and there’s a twinkle in her eye whenever she speaks. He wonders how this slip of a girl would defend his life from certain peril if the need ever arose, but quickly reminds himself that he does not ever want to find out. 

It is nice to have company on his morning jog, he admits. (At least company that isn’t the Glaive that stalk his every move.) She outpaces him very quickly, has to readjust so that they keep an even speed, and it dispels any question of her abilities. They cross through central park; a number of other joggers and cyclers pass by them on the cobble pathways and pay them no mind whatsoever. Prompto has already gotten used to the freedom that brought. 

They slow their pace approaching the food vendors in the main thoroughfare of the park. There seem to be even more stalls set up in the summer sunshine: warm food, cold drinks, ice cream, coffee – he loses count when Iris hands him a cup of shaved ice and grins wickedly. 

“Breakfast,” she laughs. 

Niflheim is mostly covered in snow. It’s bitter cold, and a general inconvenience to everyday life. Prompto had never thought to _eat_ it. But this is green, and tastes of apple – and he finds himself wondering why this wasn’t available _everywhere_ back home. 

Conversation is becoming easier, but there are still long stretches of silence that do not seem natural to him. He knows he’s probably overthinking it. Luckily, Iris does not share his social anxieties – the girl can talk for days, with little time for breath in between, and Prompto finds it’s nice to just listen. Be apart of a conversation, and not have to worry about input or if he will say something wrong and offend his hosts. 

“It’s being considered for the wedding,” she says suddenly, and Prompto realises he hadn’t been paying too much attention. He isn’t sure it’s the ice that sends a shiver down his spinal cord. He doesn’t have to ask to know she is talking about _his_ wedding, specifically. 

“Ah,” he all he manages to say in return. In over a year, the wedding is still to be finalised. And he wonders if they are waiting for Father to slip up. Loqi’s message a few days ago suddenly seems even more dangerous than first thought. But Iris is quick to change the subject, regaling him with stories of her childhood affection for Noctis, that lasted well into her teenage years, and Prompto nods along. Imagines the starry-eyed young girl fawning over the Prince, and has to laugh. It’s a surprisingly sweet image, and Iris is not embarrassed to talk about it. He imagines it was completely common; Noctis wasn’t especially difficult to look at. 

“What was he like as a kid, back then?” 

He doesn’t really know why he asks, but enjoys the ease at which they converse after only spending a short amount of time together. Iris chews on the plastic spoon for a moment, and squints in the sunlight. “Same as now, really. Just less serious.” 

It’s not exactly the answer he was looking for, but he smiles in spite of it. Iris seems to sense his slight dissatisfaction. “He’s a good person, Noct. Sweet, and _very funny_. When he wants to be.” 

Prompto nods again, and the corners of his mouth tug a little as he stares into the slowly emptying pot of green ice. He could almost believe it. 

“It’s probably hard for you to see that,” she says quietly. “I mean, we’ve been enemies for so long. It’ll take time.” 

Prompto wants to inform Iris that he is not her enemy, and never was. That their situation is entirely more complicated - but he holds his tongue, not wanting to tarnish their budding friendship. Instead he makes a noise that sounds like agreement, and she is happy with the response. Her eyes crinkle, and she empties their recycling into the bin. 

••••••

6\. Prompto can feel the question burning on the back of his tongue for days. It’s wholly inappropriate of course, and much too personal – but he can’t seem to shake the thought. 

“Why were you never married, before this?” 

If the question surprises Noctis, he doesn’t show it. His body doesn’t seem to react to the clear invasion of privacy, he just glances across the sofa to where Prompto is sitting – with his feet up on the furniture underneath him and a book _-The History of Lucis-_ splayed in his lap. Noctis is nearing thirty, King of one of the most powerful nations on Eos, and he is without a spouse or heir. It stands to reason, that such a situation would have been rectified long before Father had offered his son as an alternative solution. 

Prompto watches him for any indication that he had heard his question; his mouth opens ever so slightly, and his brows furrow close to his eyes. 

“Just never happened,” he says eventually. And Prompto cannot fully decipher the sad smile that he watches appear slowly. He thinks he shouldn’t press the matter any further. 

“You?” 

_He should have been prepared for that really._ Noctis is staring at him, sitting less than a metre away, with piercing blue eyes and Prompto is at a loss for what to say. The living room tv seems quieter now, the show Noctis had been watching completely abandoned, and all he can really hear is the slow beat of blood in his ears. He thinks of the only person he’d ever had anything resembling a relationship with – brunette hair and green eyes seemed so distant in his mind now. He’d not seen him in so long, that his features had started to blur ever to slightly, and even the feelings he once kept locked so tight inside his chest had started to leak and thin. 

“Just never happened,” he offers. He can see now that their conversation was never going to go into much more depth than that – especially now. Noctis returns his attention to the phone in his hand. 

They fall back into comfortable silence, sitting together in the evening, as they have for the past number of weeks now. He doesn’t dislike Noctis’ company, and in fact has started to enjoy spending more time with him and the Citadel regulars. Meals with Ignis, and Gladio, and Iris. Sometimes the Marshall joins them for dinner, and he is surprisingly a very pleasant person, and not at all like the monster he had been portrayed as in the horror stories nanny had told him as a child. And there were afternoons where Noctis would seek him out to play _King’s Knight,_ or take a walk around the gardens to keep Ignis off his back about whatever work-related task he was dodging. Prompto would laugh because it is something, he was quickly learning, that Noctis _would do_. It’s weird, he thinks, that he can say that now. 

“I guess we’re stuck with each other then,” Noctis says suddenly. And Prompto is sure he has whiplash from turning much too fast, to see Noctis still staring down at his phone. Prompto smiles, a short exhaled-laugh is his only response. 

Later, when his eyes are heavy from reading for the better part of the night, he drags himself off the sofa, only to notice Noctis has already fallen asleep. His tie is half undone, and his shirt crinkled – he hadn’t bothered to get changed. His long bangs are trapped between his head and the pillow he has pushed himself into. His neck will hurt like hell in the morning, and Prompto thinks that maybe he should call someone, or at the very least wake him up. But he seems comfortable, and it’s too late to start calling Ignis now. He instead throws a blanket over him, and retires to his room for the evening. 

He wakes the next morning to a beautiful, bright, sunny day in the city – and when he leaves his bedroom he finds that Noctis isn’t on the sofa where he had left him. 

••••••

7\. Prompto isn’t sure how the general public in Insomnia perceive him, even if those at the Citadel have warmed to him. The night he arrived at Galdin Quay, weary from the long journey and quickly bundled into an awaiting car by Ignis, he had seen much fanfare about his arrival. His name mentioned several times by the locals as they navigated through the docks, and his face on every newscast between Galdin and the Citadel. 

His fragile heart saw xenophobia in every comment made about him, and each article published. And he had read _all_ of them. For the first few months at least. But the novelty soon wore away, and now his name is only mentioned briefly, if ever. 

Until tonight. 

He was apprehensive when Ignis informed him of his first official engagement that evening, being held at a theatre in downtown Insomnia to honour a long-serving member of the Insomnian council. Terrified of saying the wrong thing, to the wrong person and being immediately excommunicated from his newfound home. 

But when he steps out of the car, suit a little wrinkled from sitting in traffic, his fears evaporate with the flashing of lights around them. Noctis is ahead of him in an instant, and Prompto tries to smooth out the creases around his belly before he follows. He hadn’t been sure about the outfit – was not accustomed to the dark palette of the Lucian wardrobe. His own clothes still hang in the Citadel, mostly cream, white, and gold – exactly as Father has dictated his entire life. But Noctis assured him he looked great as they left, already running late for the event, and that was enough to put him at ease. 

Noctis notices his absence, and immediately turns to him. His eyes softened, as if in understanding. It’s all the encouragement Prompto needs, and he quickly gathers what courage he has and joins him on the sidewalk. 

He is speechless for a moment, when after the event organiser’s greet Noctis, they turn to Prompto one by and one and _thank him_ for attending also. As if on auto-pilot, he shakes the hands that are thrust at him, and offers some pleasantries in return. His shock lasts only a moment, and suddenly his upbringing and instincts kick in and he remembers what is expected of him, and how to behave as befitting his station. It’s easier from that point on. Noctis waves to the small crowd that had gathered behind the barrier; all desperate for a quick hello or a hasty half-handshake from the Royal. 

The attendees are being ushered inside, but an older woman from the council is speaking to Prompto like they are old friends, and he can’t extricate himself from their cordial conversation. He doesn’t realise they are holding up the event, until he feels a hand on his back and the world feels like it might have stopped turning. He turns his head and sees Noctis stood beside him, the source of the warmth that is radiating from his back and all the way down into his limbs. 

“You ready?” 

The councilwoman stops mid-sentence, and grins at them both. She mentions catching up later, and before long she has all but vanished into the sea of people attending the event. 

“Let’s go,” Prompto replies. He tries desperately to control the erraticism of his heartbeat in his chest, and side by side they disappear into the theatre. 

Prompto returns to his room that evening, and there is something fragile in his chest, but he’s not quite sure he can name it. He kicks off his shoes, and throws himself into the duvet – the coolness refreshing against his still-heated skin. He can’t stop smiling, the evening a complete success by all accounts. Well, according to Ignis – and what else really mattered once Ignis approved. 

There’s a message from Aranea on his phone; checks it to find a link to an online news article that seems to be spreading like _wildfire_ on social media. His own visage greets him when the image loads a half-second later – a smile so wide that he almost doesn’t believe it to be him in the picture. Noctis stands beside him, a grin just as endearing, and Prompto has to admit that they do _look_ good together at the very least. The comments on the article agree. 

Father will no doubt raise an eyebrow if he sees the article, just as he imagines Aranea did. But he quickly finds he _doesn’t particularly care_. He saves the image to his phone, and forces himself to stand and get ready for bed. 

••••••


	4. Always Golden

Always Golden

1\. Prompto wakes early the following morning. Well, early by his own impossibly high standards of what constitutes early. Ignis may be the only person that wakes earlier than him on a daily basis. But someone like Noctis for example, will still be sleeping for another three hours at this rate. 

_No,_ he thinks to himself, yawning and discarding the too-warm and cosy quilt draped across his frame. _We’re not thinking about him today._ His eyes feel heavy still, and the muscles in his shoulders and arms are begging to be stretched. It had been hard to fall asleep last night, his head crowded and abuzz with thoughts both confusing and delicate. He manages nonetheless to drag his treacherous and protesting body from his bed and prepares for his morning jog. 

Prompto is resolved to not think about the events that transpired last night. Or rather event. _Singular._ Because a lone hand, however warm and reassuring, meant nothing in the grand scheme of his life at the Citadel. Anything between Noctis and Prompto would be perfunctory at best, and that was the way of it. His touch-starved heart is the traitor, really. Making something out of what was nothing more than friendly encouragement during a crucial point in his new life. 

He knows he is far too introspective for his own good sometimes. At another time in his life, he'd spend the next few days worrying about the meaning of thosefeelings, or what Noctis was thinking. But it would be a waste of his energy now. _No,_ it was a far simpler, and a far better, plan to ignore the flutter he had briefly felt, and carry on trying to fit into this new life he had found himself thrown into. 

That is until he pulls open the apartment door and almost crashes headlong into Noctis standing in the gilded hallway of the Citadel.

He looks sheepish, Prompto thinks. It’s an emotion that he has never seen him wear before, and it causes Prompto to quirk an eyebrow in surprise. Iris stands beside him, he notices. She's probably been on duty for a while now, waiting for Prompto to wake. But the woman is too busy watching Noctis with narrowed eyes to even offer a morning greeting to him. Prompto’s gaze flits between both of them for a long moment. 

“I was going to knock,” Noctis finally says. “I’m not just waiting out here for you.”

Iris clicks her tongue, and walks away to stand a couple of feet down the hall. Prompto cannot shake the feeling that he missed something, and he looks awkwardly between them. He shoves the earphones that he has spent five whole minutes detangling into his shorts pocket. 

“Is something wrong?” he asks. 

“Nope, nothing wrong.” 

Noctis answers a little too quickly, and his voice sounds different this morning. Almost nervous. But Prompto quickly tells himself that he is imagining it. “I was going to offer to go to the park with you this morning.” 

“Oh.” 

Prompto does not at all intend for his voice to sound as dejected as he feels, but it somehow slips out. _He had a plan._ But when he watches Noctis’ eyes open just a little bit wider, obviously taken back by the response – he feels like an ass. This was getting harder and harder to navigate. 

“Unless that’s not-“

“No,” Prompto quickly says. “It’s fine. It’s great! Really.” 

“Great,” Noctis repeats only a second later. 

An uncomfortable silence falls over the three stood in the hallway, and the only noise around is the sound of the chirping birds outside, and a couple of Citadel staff rising to start their day. 

_Astrals, it is early, he realises._ And just why is Noctis up so early, when the man slept until well after 8am by all accounts? 

He feels the flutter in his stomach again, and he can feel the tell-tale rush of blood to his cheeks when he realises Noctis is still just staring at him awkwardly. He wonders if Noctis is going to broach the subject of the hand-on-the-back debacle from the previous evening. Prompto is terrified of being confronted; doesn’t think he could handle the sheer embarrassment. 

But he is quick to shut down any sentimental thoughts floating around his head, that Noctis is perhaps feeling the exact same confusion as he is. That would just be ludicrous. 

“Well, it’s settled then!” 

Iris claps her hands, loud and sharp. And Prompto has never been more thankful for her presence. “I’ll go get Gladio!” 

Noctis makes a noise of _-what Prompto assumes is feigned-_ annoyance. But nevertheless it gets him moving, freeing up enough space that Prompto feels like he can breathe again. 

He follows only a step behind, the golden morning sunlight already streaming through the windows and side entrance at the end of the corridor. 

••••••

2\. Like Iris, Gladio isn’t fazed by their swift trek through Central Park. So Prompto doesn’t waste his energy worrying when he decides to push himself harder that morning. Frankly, he needs the clarity, and the endorphins wouldn’t go amiss either. And he needs to avoid talking to Noctis, because just his physical presence is very confusing to Prompto right now. 

Prompto and Gladio have already stretched, enjoying the cooldown when Noctis and Iris appear nearby. Their pace considerably slower. 

“Tell me you’re not going to throw up,” Gladio laughs. Noctis ignores him, places a hand onto his waist, and struggles to regain his regular breathing pattern. He looks a little red in the face too, and Prompto has to hold back the laughter that Gladio cannot. 

“You can use that magic of yours all day kid, won’t count for shit if you can’t keep up on a _stroll_ around central park.” 

_Gladio just called the King **'kid'.**_

“Fuck off, Gladio,” Noctis finally grinds out. 

Gladio is still snorting when he pushes a coffee cup into Noctis' hands. Prompto sips on his own and hands another off to Iris. It’s a little too strong, but it’s warm and that’s all that matters to him right now. The mornings are starting to get a little chillier, summer threatening to turn into autumn for weeks now. 

They take a break and lounge against a wall that acts as a blockades to the pond – probably a barrier against eager young children, throwing stones in but forgetting to let go. Gladio scrolls his phone, not seeming the least bit interested when Noctis asks Prompto what he has planned for the morning and afternoon. On the far side of them, Iris sips on her coffee, content to just enjoy the early morning quiet. 

Prompto is listing his plans for the day, planned to the very last second thanks to Ignis, when he is forced to stop. It doesn’t matter anyway, because he forgets every word in his vocabulary when he catches Noctis staring intently at a spot underneath his eye. Or maybe he’s just looking into his eyes with extreme focus, Prompto can’t be entirely sure. 

"What are y-"

“You have an eyelash,” Noctis interrupts. Prompto lets the words sink in for a moment, his train of thought completely upended because Noctis is still staring at him. Or this made up eyelash. He can see the escaping steam from Noctis’ coffee drifting up past his face and into the air. 

“I have more than one,” he finds himself saying without too much thought, and Noctis’ lips quirk at the comment. 

He sucks in a breath, suddenly frozen in place when he feels a thumb swipe the side of his nose and down past his eye. Can feel the soft graze of a fingernail before the sensation is immediately gone. He exhales, and Noctis holds up his thumb with a single almost-white eyelash ghosting gently in the breeze. 

“Don’t think I’ve seen eyelashes this blond before,” he laughs. They’re both staring at the whisper-thin offender in front of them. “It’s practically invisible, almost wouldn’t see it.” 

Prompto knows the only reason he saw it is because he is sitting so damn close. It’s not as if the wall lacked available space; it was only gone 6am! 

Noctis holds his hand out, the tiny eyelash disappearing in the breeze and for a moment Prompto tries to follow it. But Noctis is right; it’s practically invisible as it drifts away. 

“Alright kids, this was fun,” Gladio interrupts, and shoves his phone into his back pocket. Noctis finally looks away, then stands to throw the coffee cup into the bin. 

“You’re _abandoning_ us?” Iris whines. 

“Big meeting to get to this morning, sis.”

Prompto gulps the last of his coffee, and watches the retreating figures of Noctis and Gladio headed towards the Citadel in the heart of Insomnia. He’s sure he sees Gladio elbow Noctis in the ribs - a sharp cry of _Fuck off, Gladio_ pierces through the quiet morning air of the park. 

••••••

3\. Ruling a nation was both easier, and more difficult than Noctis had ever anticipated as a child. Regis surrounded himself with the very best talent that Lucis had to offer, for much of his life and reign.

When Noctis inherited his Father’s throne – he also inherited this Council he had cultivated throughout the years. He trusted them, without doubt. And in turn they made this job easier. 

But when the topic turns to Niflheim, as it so often does, it gets harder and harder to picture the combative Empire threatening their borders, and not the blond Prince upstairs that is quickly beginning to mean something to him. 

“Niflheim energy outputs are down for the second year in row now,” one council member rattles off from the reports they all have in front of them. Filled with jargon and information that feels entirely useless to Noctis. But Ignis implores him to read them anyway. 

“Wouldn’t we be more concerned if they were up?” he asks, not trying to conceal his bored tone. 

The Councilman, Rakim, doesn’t respond, and instead looks to Cor. The marshall sits directly across from Noctis at the far end of the room, and it seems like miles owed to the sheer amount of people at the council meeting that morning. Cor sits with one leg crossed over the other and pushed out from the table. _Like he couldn’t wait to leave._ Noctis knew that feeling all too well. 

“Verstael still hasn’t been seen in public,” he says. “We think he might be dead.” 

“If Verstael is dead, the Empire is at a great disadvantage. Aldercapt has never hinted at peace in his lifetime, and then suddenly it is his first priority,” Rakim replies. 

“And then Niflheim energy output lowers for two consecutive years,” another Council member interjects. 

“So get to your point, I assume you have one.” 

They don’t respond to him for a moment, and Noctis can see Cor and Rakim exchange a brief glance. He already knows what Cor is going to suggest – he’d never been a fan of Niflheim, or their treaty. 

“Niflheim has benefitted greatly during this process. Access to our markets, our resources. Eased travel restrictions between our nations. Not to the mention the savings in their military budget. I think… I think we could renegotiate the terms of the treaty. I do not believe the Emperor can afford to see this treaty disolved, especially with his son in our care. We can see ourselves in a much stronger position by raising the tariffs imposed by as little as one percent.” 

“And I want to be dispatched to Niflheim immediately,” Cor says. “Within days I can have answers about Verstael, their _true_ military numbers, and these energy output levels.” 

Noctis can feel a headache building slowly. It has been hours since they entered the chamber to start their daily briefing, and they still have many topics to discuss before lunch. And now Cor and Rakim are dragging up matters that Noctis assumed were all but dealt with. He tries to imagine what Regis would do in this situation, even contemplates dipping out to the bathroom and calling him. But that would be really pathetic. And besides, Noctis is the one who will have to deal with the fallout of this for years to come. 

He thinks of Prompto instead, and his almost-white eyelashes, and the way he had held his breath when Noctis leaned into him that morning. He tells himself the decision he makes isn’t for selfish reasons, it just made sense. 

“Rakim, I’m not using the Prince as collateral to renegotiate. We settled these terms over a year ago, and we were comfortable with them then. Cor…” Noctis sighs, and shakes his head. “Do whatever you want.” 

It was much easier to keep the Marshall happy, and occupied. If Cor smirks as he stands, Noctis doesn’t see it because he flips the page on the agenda in front of him, and clears his throat. Cor has already slipped out of the council chamber; the soft thud of the door signals his eager escape. 

“Can we move on?” 

“Yes, your majesty. We believe a number of wedding dates have been agreed upon as being suitable, the first in early winter. Although we were not sure if you were amenable to this.” 

••••••

4\. Niflheim does not revere the Astral gods in the same way as Lucis does, Prompto is learning. A visit to the Shrine of Bahamut had been scheduled for some weeks now, but he had assumed it was just another engagement where he would be banded about in order to show the Insomnian people he wasn’t anything to be feared. That he was, in fact, _practically one of them. He loves the Astrals, everyone!_

Ignis has been coaching him since mid-morning on how to behave in the venerated, centuries-old building; how to speak to a priest of Bahamut; how to stand; how to _kneel._ It is getting a bit much, Prompto thinks. _He has never prayed in his life._ And this seems silly.

But Ignis seems _very_ into it. And even Iris has a look of reverence on her face, that utterly confuses Prompto because it is not at all like her. And then he remembers the onyx ring that Noctis always wears on his left hand, and the Crystal that he still has not seen, somewhere on the highest levels of the Citadel, and _just maybe,_ it all makes a little bit more sense. 

He still isn’t sure he knows what he is in for when he follows Ignis and Iris across the lobby of the Citadel. Nyx shadows them today (not Libertus, who was fast becoming his regular follower) and the seemingly less than impressed Glaive only adds to his anxiousness to get this afternoon over with. 

“Prompto!” 

Noctis shouts across the lobby, and closes the distance between them pretty quickly. He palms a few papers in his hand, and behind him Prompto watches over a dozen nobles shuffling out of the main council chamber. Must have been the meeting Gladio mentioned this morning. 

“You heading downtown?” 

“Yeah,” Prompto replies, trying to make himself sound more enthusiastic than he currently is. But Noctis laughs, and wishes him luck in the most sarcastic way possible. Nyx walks away, giving them some space, and Prompto can’t see Ignis nor Iris anymore; they must outside already. 

“Listen, I don’t want to put you on the spot,” Noctis says and walks a little closer. He lowers his voice. “But do you know Verstael Besithia?” 

Prompto swears he can feel his heart stop in his chest, and his stomach twists into an uncomfortable knot. He’s sure Noctis can sense his momentary panic, but he looks at him so casually – peaceful blue eyes completely oblivious and Prompto can feel his throat restricting. 

_You must do exactly as I say, my son._

_You must promise me that you only have the Empire in your heart. Your dear Father. Your young Brother._

“Like do you know if he’s still around, or…?”

“I don’t really know…” he manages to say. Clears his throat for good measure, and hopes the answer is enough. Noctis nods, and looks pensive for a brief moment, and Prompto has to stop himself from asking why Noctis was asking about that man. It was one thing to lie to Lucis before… but now things were _kind of_ different. He hates his Father more for putting him in this position, than Noctis for asking. 

“That’s ok,” Noctis says. _Because of course he does._ The soothing tone does nothing to untwist his insides, but he does manage to calm himself a little. He didn’t technically lie to Noctis, because Verstael is still around _somewhere._

But it still feels wrong to withhold information from Noctis, who has so far only been kind to him, and oddly affectionate. 

Ignis shouts his name from the doorway, and Noctis smiles and waves a hand across the lobby. Prompto snorts, isn’t sure if Noctis _thinks_ that will really work – because Ignis will not care if Bahamut himself was speaking to Prompto right now. They had an engagement, and by hell or high-water, Ignis was _not_ going to be late. A mere King was nothing in the face of his time-keeping skills. 

“I’d better go,” Prompto says, and Noctis nods. 

“When you talk to the priest, just tell him you read his book and _loved it._ You won’t have to say a word for an hour, at the very least. I swear.” 

“I did?” 

“I don’t know,” Noctis smiles, and begins walking backwards. “You need to bluff.” 

Prompto feels for sure that Noctis will trip soon, or at the very least crash into some poor unsuspecting noble in the lobby. But it’s hard to scold him when he’s grinning like that across the black and white marbled foyer.

“Oh did you see the _King’s Knight_ patch?” 

“No?” Prompto replies, entirely too loud, but no one seems to pay them any mind. 

“They nerfed your favourite champion...” 

_“No!”_

Noctis laughs, and Prompto knows his reaction seems entirely inappropriate to those around him. A councilwoman slows and narrows her eyebrows as she passes him. Noctis turns around finally, and disappears down one of the long ornate corridors, and Prompto takes that as his cue to follow Ignis. Who seems entirely disappointed, and taps his foot whilst checking his watch. He isn’t quite sure how he is supposed to concentrate this afternoon after devastating news like that, and idly wonders how he was going to emerge victorious against Loqi now without his tried and true method. 

Later, he tries to compose himself, kneeling in the grand Cathedral (Ignis had apologised profusely for the lateness of course) but he can’t stop thinking about sparkling eyes, and the way Noctis had walked backwards down the hall so as not to break their eye contact. Prompto can’t help the half-suppressed, and surely lopsided smile on his face. 

He hopes Bahamut and his priests take no offense to his obvious disrespect in their church. 

••••••

5\. Noctis is photogenic. Almost unfairly so, and Prompto has come to accept it as nothing less than a fact. Putting aside his own personal feelings on the matter, _of which he had several,_ Noctis is objectively pleasing to the eye. Even if he has refused to shave the stubble that has grown in since Friday morning. (Prompto had insisted that Regis would be dismayed at his sloppy appearance when they reached Caem for the long weekend. Noctis laughed loudly when he said it, and shook his head, as if Prompto were joking. He thinks about it afterwards, and figures it is only _his_ Father that would take offence to such trivialities.) 

Prompto slides his index finger across the screen of the smooth glass, and is surprised by just how many times Noctis’ _mostly-beardless_ face pops up. Or Gladio. Or Iris. Or different combinations of all four of them. He can’t hide the smile the blossoms across his face. 

Noctis only exhales, a half laugh really, when Prompto informs him of his findings. He doesn’t take his eyes off the road, but Prompto sits beside him, and can tell his face is a little flushed. 

“Need to pull in here for gas,” he says a little later in their drive. Insomnia is fading into the distance behind them. 

“And so we can see Gladio’s _girlfriend!”_

“You have a girlfriend?” Prompto finds himself asking quickly, snapping around to find Gladio lounging on the backseat. He growls in response, and Noctis laugh is dry and sardonic. It only dawns on Prompto then that he had never heard about this woman in the entire time he has now lived in Insomnia.

 _Maybe not,_ he thinks to himself.

Hammerhead might be the antithesis of Niflheim, or at least the parts Prompto is familiar with. The dry, arid land lends nothing to the few plants that dry to poke from the ground, and even the animals out on the plains looks parched and despondent. Prompto tugs his woollen cardigan off and throws it into the car. He is already missing the conditioned air of their car. He wonders how Noctis and Gladio are faring in their Insomnian-black outfits, a magnet for the heat of the sun, but he quickly finds they are not at all fazed. 

“Hey y’all!” 

Cindy is waiting for them on the forecourt, wrench in hand, and Prompto was not expecting her to… look like him? It has been a long while since he had met anyone with the same light golden hair, a rarity outside of Niflheim it seemed. And for a brief moment he feels some sort of kinship with the mechanic. 

She pulls away from Gladio, their fleeting embrace discarded, and stares directly into his eyes – her smile as radiant as the blazing sun beating down on them. 

“And this must be the _Niff,_ ” she says. For someone standing in the middle of a literal desert, Prompto feels his blood turn to ice in a cool instant. _Niff._ He repeats the word in his head, and feels his jaw set uncomfortably around it. He has to plaster as fake a smile as he can muster onto his features – because Noctis and Gladio look at him expectantly. They don't seem to see anything wrong with what she had said. Cindy walks towards him, and Prompto knows there is no malice in her demeanour. But the word has sliced him now, and it’s hard to stop the searing-like pain that courses through him, like a massive papercut. 

“I’m kidding, hun!” 

She grips his shoulder, and Prompto wonders if it’s supposed to be comforting, or apologetic, or both. She’s still smiling wide, and Prompto laughs nervously.

"It's nice too meet you, Cindy."

It seems to be enough for all three of them.

“We should catch up; it’s been ages since I seen you boys!” 

They walk toward the diner Cindy points out behind them, and they quickly fall into conversation. Prompto tries to keep up, but it’s easier to let them lead the way. It’s only a stones through away from the gas station where the Lucian party have abandoned their vehicles. The garage that Cindy operates (alongside her grandfather) is the only other building on the lot, but there are certainly a lot of visitors around that afternoon. It’s only as they head into the diner and Prompto spots the caravans that he realises why there were so many travellers at the rest spot. Probably a nice spot for hunters, or tourists to the area. 

The diner is mostly full when they grab a table near the door, but surprisingly quite. Prompto is just thankful it is air-conditioned. Being covered in a layer of sweat was not exactly comfortable, and it didn’t help that no one else was seemingly affected by the white-hot heat. Ignis, Iris, and Nyx have already claimed a booth near the counter – alongside a couple of other Glaive that Prompto has never seen before, and they all seemed engrossed in their conversation. 

Gladio throws some menus on the table in front of them, and Cindy wastes no time in engaging him, asking about work and his father. 

“What do you want to eat?” he asks Noctis casually. Secretly he hopes Noctis will provide some sort of clue as to what’s… _edible_ here. Most of the delicacies on the menu hint toward being deep-fried and Prompto isn’t sure if his body can take any more heat than necessary. Noctis purses his lips and scans the menu for only a second, before flopping the laminated page onto the table. 

“Surprise me.” 

Before Prompto can argue, Noctis has left their booth, and heads towards the restroom at the back of the diner. _Fuck._ Now he has to order for two people, whilst trying to decipher the foreign, awkwardly-worded and rather short list of dishes that the diner offered. He thinks he should ask Cindy what she would recommend, but when he casts his eyes up off the page, she is staring at him with a knowing smile. 

“What?” 

“Nothing,” her smirk doesn’t waver. “You’re just cute together.” 

His face is burning, and he can’t entirely blame it on the sun this time. Gladio doesn’t take his eyes off the menu, but snorts all the same. When the waitress arrives Prompto orders two plates of fries, and requests the largest pitcher of water _-with extra ice-_ that she has on the premises. 

••••••

6\. Dinner that evening in Caem ends on a sombre note. But before that, the mood had been quite jubilant as they celebrated Regis’ sixtieth birthday. And Prompto realises he has never been a part of something so decidedly simple, authentic, _familial._

It is a far cry from Father’s dining room in Gralea, but even that is starting to blur in his memory. Prompto has spent most of his life dining alone if he were honest about it. 

Regis doesn’t seem to mind that Cor and Nyx are sitting only a handful of places away from him at the table, even though they are in his employ. Or that Gladio is slouching into his seat next to his own father, Clarus. Or that Noctis has his elbows on the table, and his hands clasped under his chin. Or that Iris sits with one leg underneath herself, and twisted on one side to shout something across the far end of the table to Ignis. All of it lending to create an atmosphere that Prompto has never encountered before, something peaceful and domestic. And he’s not sure why he feels so emotional when Regis engages him directly, asking his opinion on a topic Cor has initiated. 

Other guests join them that evening, but Prompto does not recognise them. Old friends of Regis’ – introduced only as Cid and Weskham. Cid is without doubt related to Cindy from Hammerhead. Prompto knows this without needing to be told. 

But Regis seems less spirited later in the evening, and Prompto thinks – that like himself – the former King has had _too much wine._ His birthday speech, which started as something so bright and contented, has dimmed into what can only be described as mournful. A dolent lament for a duty shirked and unfulfilled. Handed off to his only son, who shifts awkwardly in his seat beside his tipsy Father. 

And then he mentions her. _Aulea._ Noctis’ long-dead but clearly still-missed mother. Prompto can feel a familiar sting in his eyes when Regis’ talks about his love for the woman, and he wonders if his Father ever felt this way about his Mother. 

Regis’ stops mid-sentence, his birthday speech slowly becoming a second eulogy, and looks around at his guests one by one. Emits a small laugh, a horrible mirthless thing really. He knows he has made the room uncomfortable, Prompto thinks. As odd as it sounds, he feels terrible for the man. A natural empath, he can feel the sorrow that emanates from in waves, much like the ocean surrounding his retirement home. 

He doesn’t realise he has been holding his breath for the longest time, everyone at the table silent, until Ignis stands and starts to gather the dishes. 

“Well, we’d better get this all tidied away. What terrible guests we’d be if we left it all to His Highness.” 

Gladio helps. And soon everyone is chatting quietly once more. Prompto watches Cor place a reassuring hand on Regis’ shoulder before disappearing with his plate into the kitchen behind them. 

Noctis stays seated beside his father as the other guests filter from the dining table one by one. And Prompto suddenly feels the burning need for fresh air. He doesn’t think he can sit at the table another moment. 

••••••

7\. He dangles his legs precariously over the edge of the cliff, and looks out at the waves crashing onto the rocks beneath him. The sea-salt breeze blows through his hair, and infects his nostrils. No one else has followed him outside, and he thinks most are either leaving for home, or retiring to bed. But even in the strange darkness of Caem, a place so unfamiliar to him, Prompto isn’t afraid. Probably because Nyx had past him only moments ago, patrolling the residence grounds. It's peaceful out here, and it might be the safest he has felt in his life, even if he doesn’t admit it to himself. 

“Prom?” 

He hears his steps as he approaches, rocks and gravel crunching underfoot as Noctis trudges up the soft incline towards the lighthouse and cliffs where Prompto sat staring out, camera discarded beside him. He notices the diminutive, but doesn’t say anything other than a short _hey_ when Noctis sits beside him, throwing his exposed-legs out to hang beside Prompto’s. 

“How’s your dad?” 

Noctis laughs, more a soft exhale really, and Prompto is glad he at least looks less worried than he had in the dinner room. “He’s fine. Gone to bed I think. Too much wine.” 

Prompto laughs and agrees. 

“I’m sorry if it was weird for you. The others are used to it, I think. But he always gets a bit weepy on his birthday. Mostly about my mom.” 

“You don’t have to apologise,” Prompto answers quietly. “I understand better than most.” 

The latter part of his sentence comes out as whisper more so than anything else, and he doesn’t anticipate Noctis to stare at him like he does. Prompto can see from his periphery. It’s only for a moment, but he wonders if Noctis is about to say something in response. But then he exhales, and looks back out to the ocean. It feels like an eternity before Noctis says; 

“You can talk about it. If you want, that is. I don’t mind listening.” 

Prompto is glad he put his cardigan back on earlier, the wind a little more forceful now coming off of the ocean. “There’s nothing much to say,” he replies. The words paradoxical to him. It's simple really; she's dead. But there is plenty Prompto has left unsaid about his mother’s untimely death. He hasn’t wanted to impose his grief on anyone else over the previous twenty-seven years, and he doesn’t intend to start now. 

“My mother died in a car accident when I was two years old. So I don’t remember her. At all.” 

He turns to Noctis, not expecting the matter-of-fact admission, but finds himself already absorbed. Prompto knew how Aulea died, had picked up bits of pieces of the Lucis Caelum history over the years. But he feels undeserving of hearing the story now. He still doesn’t understand why this family are so forthcoming, and... kind with him. 

“When my dad talks about her I feel like a fraud,” Noctis says. Prompto holds his breath, unsure if he wants to hear the rest of that thought. “It feels artificial… to pretend to mourn her every year, just for his sake. But it’s hard to ignite something for someone you’ve never known.” 

The punchline hits Prompto like a kick in the stomach, the air in his lungs escaping rapidly. He finds himself face to face with Noctis again, and he’s sure his sad half-smile is mirrored by his own. He can hear Nyx crunching through the gravel nearby, but neither of them move an inch. 

“When I was kid,” he hesitates almost immediately. He doesn’t know what makes him say the words, unlock the casket of grief he swore he would keep locked away. But Noctis had shared his secret with him, and Prompto thinks it would be wrong of him not to reciprocate. Noctis doesn’t move, and just waits for him to continue. “I convinced myself that a monster had escaped from my nightmare, and killed my mother…”

Noctis’ fidgeting hands have stilled in his lap. “It sound really stupid,” he laughs. 

“I told my Father about it one evening, at dinner. _Not too long ago actually,_ ” he can’t help the bitter tone that seeps into his voice. “I guess I was hoping to be told it wasn’t my fault. Even though I’m the one who found her… haemorrhaging in her bed.” 

Noctis sucks in a breath of fresh air, and Prompto knows he is shocked by the admission. 

“My father just sighed,” he whispers at last. “And… kept eating.” 

He remembers vividly that evening. Father’s lack of reassurance or affection for his firstborn child. _The oblique suggestion._ The way Prompto’s throat had all but closed when Father looked down at his plate in disgust. The choked sob he’d held back until he was alone in his room that night, with only a pillow to drown out the tears he felt would never stop. He’d swore he’d never speak about her again after that evening. But tearing open old wounds that have long been dormant, overthinking every detail, or insult, or every _act of affection_ is something Prompto has always been very good at. 

He wipes away the wetness that has gathered in one eye with the sleeve of his cardigan. His other hand is a little preoccupied because Noctis has seized it; a tight squeeze for only a moment. The single moment of comfort before he withdraws is more than Prompto has ever received from his Father. And that makes him more upset than anything else that evening. 

“I guess we have the same tragic backstory,” Noctis says in an obvious attempt to lighten the mood. 

“Completely different Father’s though,” Prompto counters quickly. His voice is a little thickened with emotion, but the moment is enough to make them both laugh. 

There is a warmth between then now, and Prompto still cannot name it. It’s not love, but something completely different. All he knows is that it is wholly easier to talk to Noctis than most other people who had come and gone from his life. He’d laughed more, smiled more even, in the past two years than had seemed possible before. And sometimes, like this very moment, it was nice to just sit in silence, and be at ease around another person. It dawns on him then, that this was what it was like to have someone care about him. 

“I like spending time with you,” Noctis says, as if on cue. Prompto waits for the _but,_ or the _despite_ – but neither materialise. Noctis only grins, and grabs the camera sitting between them. He knocks his knee into Prompto’s, a warning, and he has only a moment to compose himself because Noctis leans in and raises the camera to take a picture of them. 

He hands it to Prompto afterwards, and he’s surprised to see that it’s not _half bad._ Considering the darkness – moon hidden behind clouds that signalled an incoming storm - and Noctis’ lack of photography experience. Prompto is ready to compliment his beginner’s luck, but it dies on his lips when he looks up to see Noctis staring at him once more. Just like that day in the park all those weeks ago now. Except this time he’s a lot closer. Prompto has forgotten how to breath, and he catches Noctis’ gaze -darker now, and focused- dart to his mouth for the briefest of seconds. He can feel the panic rising, and tries to think of anything he can to break the tension. 

“Why are Lucis and Niflheim enemies?” 

"..."

"..."

“What?” Noctis blinks in surprise, after a moment. When he reinstates the distance between them, straightening his back once more, Prompto feels both relieved and disappointed. 

“Shouldn’t you know?” 

Noctis seems perplexed. And Prompto is too if he’s being honest. It is something he has always wondered, but never dared to ask. Until it was the first thing he thought of to diffuse the obvious tension building between them. 

“You and I get along, right?” 

“We do,” Noctis replies coolly. 

Prompto shakes his head expectantly, hoping to illicit any kind of answer. Because he’s interested now to hear the explanation, even if the conversation had come about unnaturally.

“I don’t know what answer you want,” Noctis replies finally and looks away. Prompto wonders if there ever was a reason, or someone to blame. Part of him is terrified to think that maybe Father is the one to blame, after all this time. He buries the thought deep, ignores the niggling he still feels in the back of his mind, and thinks maybe he shouldn’t have brought the topic up. Thinks he’d rather be regretting kissing Noctis at this moment, than contemplating Father’s true ambitions. 

“It’s difficult to be the first one to put your weapon down,” Noctis finally replies. He’s still not looking at Prompto, but he can feel the weight of the words. And maybe some hidden meanings if he dug deep enough. Which Prompto of all people would surely do. 

“You leave yourself open, vulnerable. It’s not easy.” 

Prompto swallows any reply he had because he doesn’t quite know how to answer. Or if there is a correct one. The ocean churning below them is becoming harsher with every second that passes, the noise rising with the waves high onto the cliff face. He thinks it might be getting dangerous to stay out there any longer. 

Noctis agrees, it seems. He sighs, and taps Prompto’s knee with his once more before standing and dusting off his hands. 

“I’m gonna head to bed,” he says simply. No hint of annoyance or frustration, just a smile in the dark before he heads back down the path. 

••••••

8\. Prompto returns to his room soon after, his conversation with Noctis has stirred up some confusion surrounding a whole range of various topics. Before coming to Insomnia he had been content to smash his feelings into one single chamber of his heart. _His mother’s death; Father’s Imperium; the war with Lucis; Loqi’s ascension; the boy in the library._ Planned to ignore it all until the day he died, a proud son of Emperor Aldercapt, causing no fuss or embarrassment to his reign. 

But Noctis seemed intent on pulling it all out one by one, one bright smile or obnoxious laugh at a time. 

_And he did have a beautiful smile._

The duvet is cold where Prompto sank after returning from the cliffs. The house dark and quiet as he wandered up the stairs, the majority of the guests left or retired to bed for the evening. He spreads his fingers wide, feeling the coolness of the fabric over as much of his skin as possible. And for a moment he lets himself imagine what it would have been like if Noctis had kissed him. Pretends like he hasn’t thought idly about warm hands on his back a dozen times over the past months and then quickly discarded those thoughts. 

He feels his pulse racing, and for once he doesn’t overthink the potential consequences. Or rather, _doesn’t care._ Prompto tries to fathom why he panicked earlier, on the cliffs. Because it certainly wasn’t because he didn’t want it. It strikes him then that it is the intimacy he is afraid of, and he can’t help the dry laugh the escapes from the back of his mouth. 

It really was laughable. 

In an instant, he is already outside his bedroom door, and walking across the hall. He knocks on another door, but doesn’t wait for a reply before slipping inside. 

“Prom?” Noctis asks quietly. He knows it’s late, and Prompto is also conscious of the house full of sleeping guests, but for different reasons. “Something wrong?” 

Prompto shakes his head, and swallows thickly. He digs his back into the old wooden door, keeps his hands behind his back and grasping the handle for dear life. He’s terrified that any moment he might back down and run. 

He can hear his heartbeat in his ears as Noctis walks a step closer, and the sea-storm outside is in full swing now. He sees Noctis’ duvet is pulled open, and he’s standing in just his shorts and t-shirt. Obviously intent on turning in soon. But Prompto only needs a minute. 

“I think you should kiss me,” he says quietly. And watches as Noctis’ eyes widen just a fraction, but darken considerably. He knows it isn’t because of the dimmed lighting in his childhood bedroom. 

“I think you were going to earlier, but I panicked. I do it a lot if you haven’t noticed by now. But I’m trying…”

A crack of lightning briefly illuminates the room, followed closely by a crackling thunder. Prompto isn’t sure if it’s ominous or not, but he’s come too far to stop now. “I just… I think you should kiss me now, instead.” 

Noctis doesn’t say a word, and he doesn’t flinch. But the duvet cover that had been in his grip, has now flopped back onto the bed. Prompto’s heart aches with yearning, at just how calm and downright handsome he is. His movements are slow, and entirely deliberate. Probably so as not to scare Prompto off. 

He’s standing in front of Prompto in an instant; he never realised they were practically the same height until he’s staring into grey-blue eyes that are searching for approval. Prompto nods, and feels his throat go dry. He subconsciously wets his lips. 

Noctis takes another step forward, until they are only inches apart. And Prompto closes his eyes for a moment when he feels a warm hand on his back, just as tantalising as the last time it had been there. Noctis _surely_ knows how he felt all those weeks ago, now. How much he had thought about it afterwards, replaying the moment and the feeling in his mind for days and weeks afterwards. 

Prompto’s heart is beating faster and faster; can feel Noctis soft exhales of air on his face. His hands have a death grip on the door behind him, now pressed between it and Noctis, and he thinks he might run out of air if Noctis doesn’t hurry up. But he’s still waiting, and Prompto wonders if he even intends to follow through. It’s only when Prompto forces himself to breath that Noctis tilts his chin with his free hand, and kisses him. 

Prompto feels a rush of helplessness, but not in any way he had felt before. He sinks into Noctis’ soft lips, and doesn’t notice when his hands leave the door and sneak up around Noctis. The warmth and softness of their mouth's moving against one another is enough to leave him feeling limp and boneless. His doubts drift away with the tide into nothingness. 

There is a sudeen urgency in the way Noctis parts his shaking lips. Prompto can instantly taste the minty toothpaste Noctis has just used. It sends tremors through him, electrifying each connecting nerve along the way. One hand finds its way into Noctis hair, and Prompto unintentionally grazes his scalp trying to pull him closer. Noctis hums into his mouth, a split-second reaction, and it is all the encouragement Prompto needs. _He knows how to kiss, dammit._ And he’s not going to be outdone. 

He kisses Noctis with an intensity that bordered on lewd, but his head is swimming with giddiness and he’s not exactly thinking straight. Noctis’ beard that he had earlier complained about scratches at his skin, but he doesn’t even care anymore. The fingers on his back dig in further, evoking a sensation he doesn’t think he’d ever felt before. All he knows is he might surely die if he stops kissing Noctis. 

But Noctis does stop, pulling away only an inch. And it only dawns on Prompto then that they were both running out of air, and quickly. His lungs are aching. 

Noctis smiles. It’s so endearing to him now, and he’s not quite sure how or when that happened. But it did. He watches Noctis wet his own lips- is mesmerised by the sight of him. Prompto promises himself that if he kisses Noctis again he might never stop. But he doesn’t want to get ahead of himself; ruin something before it even begins. As much as his body is beginning him not to extricate himself from their embrace, he does. 

They stand like that for a moment, both breathing in unison, foreheads pressed against one another, and smiling until Prompto can feel an ache in his cheeks. Noctis' thumb rubs small circles on his back, and Prompto feels like he might fall asleep right there. So warm, and comfortable, and content to just _be._

“I should probably go,” Prompto whispers. 

“If you want.”

He doesn’t want. And Noctis knows that, because he’s smirking, so much so that Prompto wants to make it disappear underneath his mouth once more. 

But he manages to regain some clarity, laughs to diffuse some of their shared sexual tension, and pulls back. Noctis follows his lead, and before long Prompto is missing the warmth of his body. Feels only the cold, hard door handle behind him again, and grins to other man as he slips out of the room and into the quiet hallway.

No one is around, for which he is thankful, to discover their clandestine midnight meeting. Prompto manages to make it back to his room without waking anyone. The rooms were all packed so close to one another in the old cabin home.

He collapses back onto the duvet, crisp and white - but somehow warmer than when he had left it. The storm outside doesn’t bother him, and he can’t wipe the smile from his face when he slinks off to the bathroom to brush his teeth – suddenly eager for the taste of mint in his mouth. 

••••••


End file.
